


w A v Y b A b Y

by sidneyprescott



Series: Millennial Pink [1]
Category: IT (1990), IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Humor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Texting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-02-21 20:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13151838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidneyprescott/pseuds/sidneyprescott
Summary: It starts as a joke. Who the fuck takes a line like clout goggles on / Bitch, I feel like Elton John seriously? Twenty thousand people do.or, alternatively, Richie Tozier accidentally becomes a SoundCloud rapper after attracting two of the music industry's biggest stars.





	1. Elton John

**Author's Note:**

> This was literally inspired by Elijah Daniel's song Elton John, Lil Xan, and Lil Peep. Stan's a famous musician, Ben's a famous producer, and Richie Tozier is an idiot. I don't take credit for the lyrics used in this fic; they belong to Elijah Daniel! Anyway, enjoy the 2017 AU nobody asked for.

* * *

 

 It starts as a joke.

That’s all it is; some verbal bullshit and technical horseshit thrown together in a few days of boredom and procrastination, and it’s a _joke─_ Richie considers himself a satirical expert after a childhood spent learning life lessons from South Park so to, in four hours, pen and produce his own SoundCloud rap to make some statement about the death of taste and creativity, Richie thinks he’s having a mystical experience─ because who the fuck takes a line like _clout goggles on / Bitch, I feel like Elton John_ seriously?

Twenty thousand people do.

 

* * *

 

(11:11 pm) _dude r u seeing this right now????_

(11:11 pm) _ur song has like 500 rts_

(11:28 pm) _richie????_

(11:53 pm) _holy shit it hit 2k_

(12:37 am) _4k???? RICHIE????????_

(02:04 am) _STAN URIS QUOTED IT_

(02:06 am)  _ANSWER MY FACETIME U DICK_

(11:18 am) **holy FUCK**

 

* * *

 

It happens overnight and, for once, Richie isn’t exaggerating. He downs the rest of his Redbull (mixed with vodka) and posts a SoundCloud link on Twitter to the track. A few people retweet, mostly his Twitch friends, and he goes to sleep thinking about how he’s going to waste the rest of the weekend. Phone’s been on silent since the seventh grade. Richie sleeps peacefully while it blows up, buried under his covers, with notifications because somehow Stan Uris hears his track and wants a feature, wants to make Richie’s GarageBand beats _legit_ , but Richie’s asleep and he stays asleep until eleven in the morning the next day when _Elton John_ surpasses twenty-thousand hits.

Richie Tozier doesn’t check his phone until he’s halfway down a whiskey and a soda. On one hand, he finds out spittakes are Hollywood propaganda when he, overcome with pure fucking _shock_ , doesn’t spit his drink out in an explosive cloud. On the other, he’s in a groupchat with Stan fucking Uris and some producer friend of his and they’re talking beats, they’re talking flow, they’re talking clout. Richie Tozier is talking fucking clout ‘cause now he’s got some and it’s a real, intangible thing he can feel with the surge of followers spanning across his social media; it isn’t a conspiracy created by Youtubers anymore to brainwash and sell merch─ no, it _definitely_ is but now Richie’s in on it.

He’s not selling merch though.

He’s meeting up with Stan Uris and Haystack in Manhattan later.

 

* * *

 

(02:16 pm) **mike**

(02:16 pm) **mike**

(02:16 pm) **Michael.**

(02:17 pm) **mike**

(02:17 pm) **mike**

(02:17 pm) **mike**

(02:17 pm) **mike**

(02:17 pm) **mike**

(02:17 pm) _what_

(02:17 pm) **mike**

(02:17 pm) **oh**

(02:18 pm) **stan wants to make elton john a legit fuckin song**

(02:18 pm) _dead ass??_

(02:20 pm) **yeah**

(02:20 pm) **my hands r Ducking shiitake**

(02:20 pm) ***my hands r fucking shaking**

(02:21 pm) _i know ur meeting the love of ur life and everything but u need to chill lol_

(02:21 pm) _like u made a dope track if stan fucking uris wants to work with u_

(02:22 pm) _so dont get nervous and do any voices around him_

(02:24 pm) **i'm not a rapper like this shit was a joke**

(02:25 pm) **do u remember his ck billboard at high line**

(02:25 pm) **that i sent u**

(02:25 pm) **bc it made me trip and eat concrete**

(02:26 pm) **what if i see him irl and bust my teeth on the floor**

(02:40 pm) _u already have fucked up teeth he won't even notice_

(02:42 pm) **fuck u**

 

* * *

 

“I’m Ben,” Haystack says, hand outstretched and smile so sincere that Richie shakes his hand before his brain can process how weird that is. “It’s sick to meet you, Richie; the second I heard _Elton John,_ I knew I had to get involved, you know?”

Haystack─ _Ben─_ speaks like a forty year old trying to fit in with his kids. It’s endearing.

“I can’t believe you _want_ to be involved,” Richie replies. Ben’s still pumping his hand enthusiastically. “Richie’s my father, just call me Dick.”

Ben hesitates for a second but then he laughs, straight from the belly, and Richie decides he likes him. Ben leads him through his loft, discussing the ideas he had for _Elton John_ , both in terms of its production and expanding past the hook and Richie’s lone verse. He tells him he doesn’t usually hear anything good coming out of the Internet, honestly, not trying to be rude, but he doesn’t, and it’s refreshing to hear something creative. That doesn’t come around often even if the rise of SoundCloud rappers says otherwise. It’s a one in a billion thing, you know.

“The song’s a joke!” a voice calls from down the hall, followed by Stan _fucking_ Uris appearing in the doorway.

Richie’s heart jumps.

Stan looks even better than the photos plastered across Instagram and E!News and _shorter_ , too, by an entire head of Richie’s own height. He’s wearing a button up buttoned up and tucked into khakis and he looks like a business boy but a business boy with fucking _clout_ radiating off his Gucci slides and his Gucci belt and all that ice on his wrists that likely cost more than Richie Tozier’s entire existence.

Their eyes meet. Stan looks even better than his music videos. Even better than that super eight one Richie’s thought about in the shower ever since it came out. Richie blushes.

Ben looks nervously between them and starts apologizing. “What Stan _means_ is─”

“It’s a giant fucking joke.” Stan states, eyes bright, as he walks towards the pair. He clasps his hands behind his back and looks between them innocently. “And what kind of street name is Lil Trash? That’s like memes from completely different spheres converging into a conglomerate fuckshit.”

“Like your shit’s any better.” Richie challenges but there’s a smile curving on his lips.

“Good enough to get you here.” Stan shrugs. The shots Richie chugged in his Uber are catching up to him now because there isn’t anyway Stan fucking Uris wants to do a song with him and there isn’t any way Stan fucking Uris is shooting the shit with him in an expensive Manhattan loft and there isn’t any way Stan _fucking_ Uris just looked Lil Trash up and down like he’s anything near a snack.

“Clearly, I’m here for Haystack,” Richie throws an arm around Ben’s shoulders and pulls him tight; Ben stopped sweating, thankfully, and realized that Richie and Stan are getting along and not seconds from fighting. So he scoffs and wraps an arm around Richie’s waist and quirks an eyebrow at Stan when Richie continues with: “ _Elton John_ was an elaborate ruse to get in Ben’s pants. I knew it’d work ‘cause I went vegan and unlocked my third eye. I saw all this shit in my head before it happened. You know what’s gonna happen next?” and then Richie starts off with his best Pornhub actress impersonation, “Daddy and I are gonna fuck-”

Stan dives across and slaps his hand over Richie’s mouth before Richie can get to his exaggerated moans, face scrunched in both disgust and absolute glee, laughing. “You’re so fucking weird, Richie.”

“Richie’s his dad, just call him Dick.” Ben responds and the room glows with laughter.

 

* * *

 

(03:25 am) **ok good news and bad news**

(03:25 am) **i did the pornhub penny voice and he laughed so hard he cried**

(03:27 am) _is that the bad news_

(03:27 am) _what did i tell u about the voices weirdo_

(03:39 am) **NO michael that's the good news**

(03:41 am) _then whats the bad news_

(03:42 am) **i'm in love**

(03:42 am) _oh my god he's in love_

(03:43 am) _u know that vine? lol_

* * *

 

They stick with Lil Trash. At least, they do for _Elton John_ , because it flows better than Trashmouth (Richie’s official rap persona, because he has one of those now). Ben comes in clutch with a second verse that shouts out JK Rowling for the pure fact that Gryffindor is more of an identity to Ben than his own birthday is, and Stan comes in with a _flow so cold /  Y'all know by comparison / Y'all shit's wack_. He denounces Youtube rappers in one fatal blow that doesn’t actually do anything to their careers (they’re perfectly fine in their Los Angeles homes) but it’s fucking funny because it’s a fucking joke, the entire song is.

It’s satire and Stan gets that, Ben gets that, not everyone gets that, but Richie gets actual fucking airplay. His song’s on the radio and Cardi B follows him on Instagram.

It’s kind of a blur after that. Trashmouth blows up outside of SoundCloud; _Elton John ft. Haystack & Stan Uris _ debuts at #1 on the ITunes charts (mostly due to Stan) and they’re shooting the video next week in Los Angeles ‘cause it’s too fucking cold in New York; his parents send him photos of the _Derry Chronicle_ that features him on its front page and his old high school’s asking for him to speak at the graduation ceremony despite nearly expelling him four years prior; Richie gets a face tattoo.

 

* * *

 

(12:02 pm) _will u get me a date with sza_

(12:32 pm) **what happened to sk8r boi**

(12:34 pm) _i think he might be_

(12:34 pm) _u know_

(12:34 pm) _football tossing motion_

(12:40 pm) **oh god anything but STRAIGHT**

 

* * *

 

The line work is absolutely beautiful. It’s some cursive font that reminds him of French aristocracy, and it starts at his temple and follows the curve of his eyebrow. It’s his mother’s name, Maggie, because Richie fucking loves her and he’s hoping that’ll diminish the inevitable meltdown she’s going to have when she sees it.

It doesn’t.

She calls him twelve minutes after he posts it on Instagram.

(Five minutes after it blows up on E!News.)

“Are you _fucking_ stupid, Richard?!” Maggie Tozier shrieks over the phone. She breaks the sound barrier.

“Richie’s my dad, call me Dick,” he drawls in his James Bond Voice but it’s useless. She uses it against him.

“You are a dick!” Maggie exclaims. “What were you thinking, Richie? A _face tattoo?_ ”

“It’s your name, though, that’s _sweet_.”

“You could’ve sent me an Edible fucking Arrangement if you wanted to be sweet!”

She can’t ground him anymore; he’s twenty-two now and lives in a shitty Manhattan studio (but he’s been staying in Ben’s guest room for the past month and a half), he’s got a number one hit, and he just agreed to a feature with Lil Uzi Vert. Richie’s got too much clout to be grounded anymore.

In the end, Maggie Tozier cries but she tells Richie she’ll eat him up, she loves him so, and he tells her he’ll see her soon, and two hours later he’s on a plane to Los Angeles. He’s staying with Stan while they shoot the _Elton John_ video.

 

* * *

 

(08:02 pm) **stan's living room is an aquarium**

(08:15 pm) _wtf_

(08:18 pm) **like the walls are literally just an aquarium**

(08:18 pm) _fucking rich people_

(08:19 pm) **look at my snapchat**

(08:20 pm) _so does his house smell like pussy_

(08:22 pm) _cmon that was good_

(08:26 pm) _richie?????_

 

* * *

 


	2. Gucci Gang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie’s new to Hollywood. It’s like being a freshman all over again, except this time there is a pool on the roof and there are topless girls in there because that’s the kind of shit that happens at a video shoot.

On top of having an honest to God aquarium in his house, Stanley Uris also has a bidet. 

Richie has the misfortune of discovering it during Stan’s tour of the second half of his house, two days after he picks Richie up from the airport. It’s t-minus five minutes before Stan’s chauffeur will arrive and whisk them off to an interview with i-D (that’s  _ way _ above Richie’s pay grade; he’s a prop, really, for i-D’s segment with Stan; they’ve thrown him in last minute only because of  _ Elton John’s _ popularity), Stan drags Richie up to his room to choose between multiple Versace silk shirts, and Richie’s bladder goes into red alert.

“Why is your house the fucking Triwizard Tournament?” Richie growls, opening closets, lounges, art rooms, any rooms that aren’t bathrooms before Stan grabs him by the shoulders and steers him in the right direction.

“You’re a wizard, Richie!” Stan’s laughing and buttoning up his shirt before the door closes between them. Adrenaline spikes in Richie’s heart; his flight response kicks in with nowhere to go except the toilet so that’s what he does; there’s a smaller looking toilet next to it and Richie wonders if it's for the elves that live in Stan’s massive house and keep it as clean as it is.

He tucks himself back into his pants and leans over the smaller looking toilet. The thing is, as smart as Richie likes to think he is, he went to public school. Public school in rural America doesn’t really give a shit about its kids. For the most part, everyone’s just passed along whether or not they should be. No child left behind or whatever. So the propensity for any of Derry’s teachers to recognize learning disabilities was slowly, but surely, eroded away throughout the years of their careers dealing with shitty kids and shittier parents. There wasn’t any incentive to do more than the bare minimum. It’s not like Richie’s parents, or anyone’s parents, ever threatened lawyers or anything. But that’s besides the point and fucking depressing to think about. The point is that Richie went to public school with undiagnosed ADHD and he doesn’t have the intelligence to figure out, immediately, that this weird contraption is a bidet. He’s too stupid and not bougie enough for that shit. Richie Wentworth Tozier doesn’t spend his time thinking about bidets, but the word is on the tip of his tongue.

He twists the tap. 

Water shoots straight up his nose and down the back of his throat, his glasses are thrown off kilter, and he’s dripping wet just as the tip of his tongue utters: “Bidet!”

 

* * *

 

(09:27 am) **mike**

(09:27 am)  **dead ass just soaked myself with shitty water**

(09:29 am)  _ wdym? _

(09:29 am)  **like**

(09:29 am)  **stan’s house is fuckin hogwarts**

(09:30 am)  **like the living room with the aquarium could be like**

(09:30 am) **the slytherin dungeons**

(09:30 am)  **whatever**

(09:30 am)  **so naturally, i assumed the tiny toilet in his bathroom was for his house elves**

(09:31 am)  _ why do i know exactly where this is going _

(09:31 am) **IT WAS A BIDET**

(09:31 am)  _ bruh _

(09:33 am)  **I SPRAYED MYSELF WITH SHITTY WATER IN FRONT OF THE LOVE OF MY LIFE**

(09:33 am)  **now i have his like PARTICLES all down my throat**

(09:35 am)  _ isn’t that what u wanted anyway _

(09:36 am)  **touche**

(09:38 am)  _ anyway wikihow says that’s not how bidets work _

* * *

 

Richie comes out the bathroom soaking wet just as Stan’s leaving his room. He takes one look at Richie and presses his palms into his eyes, muttering something in Hebrew, and Richie wonders if he’s pressing hard enough to see stars. Not even ten in the morning and Richie could use a whiskey and a soda. 

“It’s a bidet,” Richie says uselessly.

“No shit?” Stan drops his hands, chews on the inside of his cheek, and waves Richie towards him. He’s pushing Richie’s wet mop out of his face before Richie comes to a full stop in front of him, brows  _ furrowed _ like a Jane Austen character, and completely oblivious to the sound of Richie’s heart slamming painfully against his ribcage. “We can save this.”

They do save this. Stan puts  _ something _ in Richie’s hair, tousling it like fucking salad until it’s mussed up enough to his liking. Says it makes Richie look like Trashmouth but  _ refined _ , like recycling. Then he’s pulling Richie’s shirt off and it’s nothing like Richie imagined it’d be because Stan’s not going for his collarbones with his lips; he’s marching over to his wardrobe and tossing Richie one of his Versace silks like it’s  _ nothing _ and the shirt’s kind of small on Richie, has to be tucked in and unbuttoned nearly to his navel with the sleeves rolled up and the cuffs of his pants rolled up, but Richie looks good. As soon as he gets his glasses back on, he can tell he looks good. Looks like straight money.

“I didn’t know about the tattoos,” Stan says quietly, gesturing to the sleeves snaking their way up the inside of Richie’s forearms. 

“You thought this was my only tattoo?” Richie points to the one on his face. It’s still healing. 

“I thought you were that stupid.” Stan retorts and this time he’s louder, almost too loud, and Richie catches Stan staring at him in the reflection of the mirror. 

“Wait ‘til you see the one on my ass,” Richie turns to face him. “It’s of a donkey.”

“Jackass.”

“Fuck you.”

It’s so gay. It’s so fucking gay. Stan’s grinning at Richie and Richie’s smiling back, fucked up teeth and all, wearing Stan’s clothes, and Stan’s eyes go soft trailing down the length of Richie’s body and Richie’s skin goosebumps after them. His flight response activated again causing his entire body to buzz with hummingbird energy. He wonders if this is the feeling his mother was talking about when she and his dad renewed their vows.

Magic. That’s the word bubbling up in his throat, on the tip of his tongue, that he wants to say. His heart’s encouraging it but before he can make the magic happen with his mouth and Stan’s, the spell is broken by its greatest enemy: twenty-first century technology.

Stan never got the memo that anyone under twenty-five has had their phone on silent since middle school. His ringtone peals out around them and the spell is broken. Stan’s eyes snap towards it instead of staying on Richie and he says: “Ride’s here,” and Richie says “Word,” and they head down the stairs, two at a time, and out the door.

 

* * *

 

(11:02 am)  **did u know hummingbirds die if they stop moving**

(11:02 am) **that’s like evidence that magic exists right**

(11:02 am)  **bc how else are they not shredded if they never stop flapping their wings**

(11:03 am)  _ sk8r boi never stops skating and he’s still a beanpole _

(11:03 am)  **magic doesn’t apply to straight people**

(11:04 am)  _ so hummingbirds r gay _

(11:04 am)  **yes**

(11:04 am) **anyway as i was saying**

(11:05 am)  _ what about like bisexual ppl _

(11:05 am) _ r they halfbreeds _

(11:06 am)  **1) stop interrupting me 2) that’s a slur in the wizarding world**

(11:06 am)  _ bc i think sk8r boi might not be all that straight or whatever _

(11:06 am)  _ so is he like half hummingbird _

(11:06 am) **i’m having an existential crisis stop stealing my moment**

(11:07 am)  _ like is it straight to smack ur homie’s ass mid ollie _

(11:07 am)  **fellas is it gay**

(11:09 am)  _ SHUT UP _

(11:09 am) _i’m genuinely having a crisis over sk8r boi_

(11:12 am)  **just say c u l8r boi**

(11:13 am)  _ i’ll choke u richie _

(11:13 am)  **when did my moment turn into a bisexual tony hawk special**

(11:14 am)  _ u gonna die without the attention? _

(11:14 am)  _ no? _

(11:14 am)  _ ok! _

(01:37 pm)  **it’s SHARKS that die if they stop moving, not hummingbirds**

 

* * *

 

Richie’s new to Hollywood. It’s like being a freshman all over again, except this time there  _ is _ a pool on the roof and there are topless girls in there because that’s the kind of shit that happens at a video shoot.

They AirBnB’d a place on Mulholland overlooking the San Fernando Valley; the hills are alive with thousands of twinkling lights in the distance as the sun starts to set, casting a pink glow across everything, across everyone, and Richie tells the nearly naked girl beside him it’s his favorite color.

“Dope.” she adjusts her nipple pasties. They’re glittery red hearts that match her clout goggles. 

He points at the Gucci tattoo on her hip. She’s so skinny it might as well be on her bone.“Did that hurt?”

“Did that?” she retorts, pointing at his face tattoo. It’s still healing which is why it looks gnarly as fuck but it doesn’t hurt that bad, not really, unless he forgets he has it and touches his face without thinking, is what he tells her. 

“It’s my mom’s name,” he continues, popping the collar on his pink windbreaker that matched his track pants and his Fenty slides. A walking stick of bubblegum. “‘cause she can’t be too mad that I’m an idiot if I’m a sweet idiot, you know?”

The girl snorts when she laughs. It’s fucking endearing. “You sound like my brother. He got my mom’s name tattooed on his arm between this like─” she grasps at the air for words. “─  _ weird  _ flag thing. It was like, a combination of the Minnesota state flag and the American flag and it had our state motto on it─ which I didn’t even know we  _ had _ ─ along with my mom’s name.”

“That sounds fucking ugly.”

“It is!” she snorts again. “God, _so_ fucking ugly! But everyone thought it was the trillest shit which is how I knew I had to escape the Midwest. All anyone cares about there are guns and racism.”

“Oh, word?” Richie perks up. “Same shit’s happening in Maine, where I’m from. Except people also give a massive shit about the Lobster festival, which is just like, a glorified torture party. Locals act like they hate it ‘cause that’s the only time Maine ever gets any tourism, but if thousands of people are coming together for the sole purpose of boiling something alive, they can’t be too mad, you know? Where else are you gonna find socially accepted sadism?”

“True,” the girl agrees. She turns to face Richie fully know, dropping her crossed arms and leaning against the railing on one elbow. “unless any of them get the balls to join the army, like my brother did. From what he tells me,  _ they’re  _ the lobsters, except none of them know it. Not even him.”

“Your brother’s in the army?”

“Yeah, like every other Midwestern dude who peaked in high school.”

Richie nods. “Do you fuck with the war?”

Her face contorts in confusion. “What did you just say?”

“Uh, do you fuck with the war?”

“No I don’t  _ fuck with the war, _ ” she says around air quotes, shooting him a pointed look. She either fucks with it more than she thinks she does or it’s a Midwestern thing to be defensive about the military. “Do you?”

“ _ No,  _ I don’t fuck with the war!” Richie says quickly, suddenly wishing Ben would finish up filming his scene and Richie would be called back to set. He’s heard Ben’s verse play about thirty times already. “Just… don’t know how to react to the forces, whatever. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Betty.” she answers easily. “And  _ don’t  _ thank me for his service. That’s fucking weird.”

“True.” Richie agrees.

They exchange Instagrams, which is how he finds out that Betty’s a model. She’s got a couple million followers and just got back from Paris Fashion Week this morning, and she’s known Stan since they were both nobodies in Los Angeles. Part of the reason she’s in the video is for clout, she tells him, ‘cause that’s what Richie needs if he wants to get anywhere nowadays. Fucking clout. She says it’s bullshit and she hates it but she lost a few gigs to Instagram models because they were all anyone was talking about, and tells him that it didn’t used to be about followers until Gen Z came along, high off Tide Pods, and made stupid people famous.

“Honestly, Soundcloud rappers are genuinely terrible,” she continues with a shrug. “but you’re different. Not only do you have, like,  _ legit  _ talent but I knew the second Stan sent me  _ Elton John  _ that it was a parody.”

“Thank fucking God.” Richie makes a show of sighing in relief just so she snorts again. “We did an i-D interview earlier and they had this like, segment with fan questions and too many people were taking me seriously. Stan and I were just answering with such bullshit; there’s gonna be headlines about our Gucci Gang as soon as it drops.”

“Gucci Gang?” she points to her tattoo. “Can I join?”

“You’re basically the leader with that.” Richie laughs, running a hand through his hair. “I was thinking of making another song, actually. Like,  _ called  _ Gucci Gang. I wrote the first verse already.”

“How’s it go?”

He says Gucci Gang enough times until she’s laughing again and she tells him to go for it, tells him it’s a  _ banger _ . Says she’ll be in the video for that, for sure, and asks if he’s got any plans for serious music. He thinks he does and he’s about to tell her when they’re called back to set to film a scene.

 

* * *

 

(08:19 pm)  _ bro u look like uniqua from the backyardigans in that fit _

(08:23 pm)  **issa lit fit**

(08:24 pm) _ issa no from me _

(08:24 pm)  **betty thinks i look fresh**

(08:24 pm)  _ who tf is betty _

(08:24 pm) **ripsom**

(08:24 pm)  _ HOW WWW DO U KNOW BETTY RIPSOM _

(08:25 pm)  _ bro _

(08:25 pm)  _ BRO _

(08:25 pm)  _ slide her my number _

(08:28 pm)  **what about sk8r boi**

(08:30 pm)  _ he’s str8r boi _

(08:31 pm)  **deadahh????**

(08:32 pm)  _ idk for sure but im assuming he is _

(08:33 pm)  _ so slide betty ripsom my number _

(08:34 pm)  **u leech**

(08:35 pm)  _ ok but u used me for my twitch followers first. it’s the circle of clout.  _

(08:39 pm)  **tru**

 

* * *

 

It’s kind of fucking gay how he immediately links up with Stan. Stan accepts his fist bump without hesitation, doesn’t even need to see that Richie’s going for a fist bump because they’re on the same wavelength or whatever. Stan smiles at him, small, secret, dimple deep, and Richie’s heart can’t take it. They film a bit where Stan’s rapping and Richie’s making it rain on the girls in the pool; they film a bit where Richie’s on the diving board spitting fire while Stan floats by on a massive swan inflatable; they're filming a bit sat beside each other on thrones wearing king and queen crowns with Betty laying on her stomach across the table in front of them, apple in her mouth, legs slowly kicking. This bit's taking the most shots because Stan and Richie can’t stop giggling when they’re supposed to be straight-faced under their clout goggles, but it’s barely fucking possible for menial reasons. Everything about them evokes a response.

“You know what’s funnier than twenty-four?” Stan mutters.

“What?” Richie breathes.

“ _ Twenty-five _ .” and Richie fucking loses it and they lose the take  _ again _ .

“I’m going to kill you, Stanley.” Betty warns from her spot in front of them. An assistant replaces the drool covered apple in her hand for another one. It’s the tenth one.

“I’m sorry!” Richie calls out, hands together like a nun begging forgiveness. “Stan can’t keep his hands off my massive wang under the table, folks.”

His heart inflates a little with the round of laughter he gets, even if the director rolls his eyes at them. Ben’s standing next to him behind the camera and he makes a throat-slitting motion at the pair, earning a laugh from the redheaded girl beside him. Betty gives her a thumbs up and they both give Stan and Richie a thumbs down.

“Action!” the director calls.

This time, Richie’s completely stoic. It’s hard not to be when Stan fucking Uris is grazing his thigh. Stan’s fingers brush slowly up and towards Richie's inner thigh, towards the danger zone, and Richie needs to remind himself to breathe. Blood pulses in his ears hard enough that he hears the muted sound of it, distant, like it’s being dragged along by the ocean. That’s basically how Richie  _ feels _ because of Stan; he feels like crimson waves beating against rocks, dragging bespectacled men out to sea and stealing the air from their lungs. _Stan’s_ stealing the air from Richie’s lungs. He makes Richie feel it.

“Cut!” the director shouts. It’s like someone just popped a red balloon in Richie's face. He's brought back to reality instantly.

Stan retracts his hand and Richie immediately looks at him, looks at how Stan’s smile dimples back at him, looks at how Stan’s cheeks flush but maybe it’s because of the heat from all the lighting, _right_ , or maybe it’s because Betty Ripsom’s rolled over onto her back and she’s still not wearing anything but nipple pasties and a thong, or maybe it’s because Richie’s stealing the air from Stan’s lungs right back and Stan’s just started feeling it.

 

* * *

(02:36 am)  **just wrapped shooting**

(02:36 am)  **ubering back to stan’s**

(02:37 am)  **there’s gna be a release party on friday if u wanna come**

(02:37 am)  **betty’s gonna be there**

(02:38 am) **bring sk8r boi if u want**

(02:39 am)  **his name’s will right???**

(04:03 am)  **stan just gave me a juul with a gucci skin**

(04:03 am)  **not to be dramatic but i’m deadass in love**

(09:17 am)  _ the siren call of the juul is how stan’s tricking u into marriage. _

(09:17 am)  _ also YEAH im fucking coming holy shit???? _

(09:35 am)  _ his name is BILL not will _

(11:20 am)  **same shit**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs mentioned in this chapter include elton john by elijah daniel and gucci gang by lil pump. if anything else sounds familiar... just wait!
> 
>  
> 
> [find me on tumblr](https://sidneyprescvtt.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> [find me on tumblr](sidneyprescvtt.tumblr.com)


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